


the heart; a feathered beast

by OnyxSphinx



Category: Alex Rider - Anthony Horowitz
Genre: Banter, M/M, Wingfic, preening rituals, technically this is sort of hurt/comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-18
Updated: 2021-03-18
Packaged: 2021-03-26 22:13:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30112803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OnyxSphinx/pseuds/OnyxSphinx
Summary: “You utter twat,” Tom says, to the figure laying prone on his sofa. He’s just stumbled out from his bedroom—it’s some time around three, he thinks, squinting at the digital clock on the stove—after being woken by a loud crash. Apparently, the source of the noise was Alex, who managed to knock over a vase and three stacks of CDs on his way to the sofa. “When I said you could crash at my place, I didn’t mean it literally.”Because Alex appears to have come in through the skylight instead of the door, like a normal fucking human person. “The lock too hard for you to pick?” he says, snidely; made a bit mean by exhaustion.Alex groans. “Didn’t want’a get blood on y’r welcome mat,” he says, half garbled by where his face is mashed into the pillow. His wings, tar-y black, magnificent things, flutter slightly. They are, Tom notices, laying at an odd angle, one that can’t possibly be comfortable.He swallows. “Blood?” he says, sharply, suddenly more awake, and, yep, actually, he can see the dark liquid soaking Alex’s light shirt. “Shit. I’ll go get the first aid kit.”
Relationships: Tom Harris/Alex Rider
Comments: 2
Kudos: 24





	the heart; a feathered beast

**Author's Note:**

> i have returned to writing about these two disasters, but who's surprised, really

“You utter twat,” Tom says, to the figure laying prone on his sofa. He’s just stumbled out from his bedroom—it’s some time around three, he thinks, squinting at the digital clock on the stove—after being woken by a loud crash. Apparently, the source of the noise was Alex, who managed to knock over a vase and three stacks of CDs on his way to the sofa. “When I said you could crash at my place, I didn’t mean it  _ literally. _ ”

Because Alex appears to have come in through the skylight instead of the door, like a normal fucking human person. “The lock too hard for you to pick?” he says, snidely; made a bit mean by exhaustion. 

Alex groans. “Didn’t want’a get blood on y’r welcome mat,” he says, half garbled by where his face is mashed into the pillow. His wings, tar-y black, magnificent things, flutter slightly. They are, Tom notices, laying at an odd angle, one that can’t possibly be comfortable. 

He swallows. “Blood?” he says, sharply, suddenly more awake, and, yep, actually, he can see the dark liquid soaking Alex’s light shirt. “Shit. I’ll go get the first aid kit.”

“Thanks,” Alex mumbles. 

Tom scampers off to the hallway; yanking open the linen closet, mind painfully blank in what he knows is a panic response—he’s become well acquainted with it since Alex was recruited by ‘six. The first aid kit is white but it looks like a washed-out blue in the night. He takes it over to Alex. “I’m going to prop you up so I can get a look at the wound, okay?”

The other’s wings flutter; and not for the first time, Tom wants to run his hands through the feathers. His own wings, held closed, twitch in response. Alex grunts. “Okay.” It ends in a hiss as he presses his hand to his chest while Tom does his best to prop him up gently with the pillows he can scrounge from the sofa and the armchair. 

“You know,” says Alex, conversationally, still pressing his hand to his chest, “I don’t know why peoples’ first instinct when you surprise them in the dark is to stab me. Well,” he adds, “in my line of work, anyway.”

Tom tugs at Alex’s shirt. “Move your hand,” he says, sternly, and then, “you got stabbed for sneaking up on someone?”

“Well,” says Alex, moving his hand, letting Tom peel the shirt back to get a look at the wound, “Okay, technically, I was trying to escape the compound and ran into one of the guards who had been told to kill me on sight.”

Tom sucks in a breath. “Jesus H. Christ on a fucking bike,” he mutters, “you really don’t half-arse things when it comes to your job, do you?”

Alex winks exaggeratedly. “You know me. I always aim to impress.” 

_ I hate that about you _ , whispers Tom’s heart. _ It’ll take you away from me one day.  _ He doesn’t say it out loud, though, just pulls out a few cotton sponges and rips them open, pressing the fabric to the wound. Thankfully, it’s not very deep, and a few layers is enough that blood is no longer actively seeping through—probably since most of it was absorbed by Alex’s shirt already. Tom adds gauze on top just in case. He doesn’t want to think about how much blood he’s lost. “Well,” he says, applying tape over the cotton, “it doesn’t seem to be too horribly bad.”

“Well,” says Alex, “I only did get stabbed a little.”

Tom scowls at him. “Shut up,” he says, and begins to poke at Alex’s bedraggled wings. “You can’t possibly be comfortable like that.”

“Not particularly,” Alex admits. “But I’ve had worse.”

“I mean,” Tom continues, “not even mentioning the angle they’re at, your feathers themselves are a mess. Have you not preened in weeks or something?”

The wide-eyed, faux innocent expression Alex shoots him, trying to prop himself up on one elbow, his shirt still pulled up, exposing his well-muscled abdomen, speaks to what, exactly, the truth is. Tom sighs. Drags a hand through his hair. “Fuck’s sake, Alex, you’re twenty,” he grumbles; and then: “come on get up. Let’s get you into bed and I can preen them properly for you.”

“You’re an utter angel,” Alex says. “Really, mate, you’re the best.”

“Yeah, yeah, well, you’re a disaster,” Tom huffs. “Honestly, I don’t know how you’ve survived this long.”

“Rider luck,” Alex says, flippantly. “And an assassin who doesn’t particularly want me to be dead.”

“Ah, right, your never-fading shadow,” Tom says, drily. “Where  _ is  _ he, by the way?”

There’s an inaudible mumble that sounds like  _ I’m not his keeper, how should I know? _ . Tom stares, unimpressed, at the other man. “I’m waiting,” he says. 

“He’s sort of the one who stabbed me,” Alex finally admits. 

“I thought he had an interest in you not dying??”

“Well, he only stabbed me a  _ little _ , like I said,” Alex says; sounding exasperated. “Did you not pay attention to anything I told you? Anyway, he had to at least pretend to attempt to kill me before he could let me get away.”

Tom shakes his head; disbelieving; steers Alex into his bedroom. “That’s fucked,” he announces, pulling out a clean shirt and chucking it at Alex. “Like, seriously, mate, what the hell sort of people do you hang around?”

Alex shrugs off his old shirt with little more than a slight flinch of pain; tugs on the new one. “He’s practically family,” he says, mildly. “I don’t take it personally.”

“Fucked up,” Tom repeats; and then: “bed, now, on your stomach, please.”

“You’re usually a bit better at foreplay,” Alex says. “You haven’t even kissed me since I came in.”

Tom lets out an exasperated sigh. “You know fully well I’m not asking for sex,” he says. “Your wings are a nightmare.”

“Rude.”

“But true,” Tom counters. “Bed. Now, please.”

Alex, after a moment of hesitation, does what he’s told; laying spread-eagle on the bed. Tom resists the urge to roll his eyes at the display; focusing instead on the other’s splayed, inky wings. 

Starting at the base of the left wing, he draws his fingers through the feathers; tugging them into place. Grabbing a jar off the bedside table as well as a comb, he begins to work feather-oil through the feathers, pleased when they begin to return to a glossy shine rather than the matte black they were before. 

Beneath his hands, Alex lets out a sigh. “Feels good,” he murmurs. “You should do this more.”

Tom swallows thickly; hit, suddenly, by the intimacy of the situation—somehow it feels even more intimate than sex. More religious. “You only have to ask,” he says; low. Practically begging Alex to say he’ll ask again, because somehow, this feels like heaven, sitting next to Alex, his fingers buried in the other’s raven-dark feathers. 

Alex hums. “Okay,” he says. Twists his head to peer at Tom. “Can you do it again some time?”

Tom’s heart leaps. “Yeah,” he says. “Sure.”

Alex grins. “Great,” he says; and lets the conversation trail off into silence. 

Tom finishes with the other wing and puts the comb and feather-oil away; lays down. Alex rolls on his side, tucking his wings; reaches out to put a hand on Tom’s cheek. “Hey,” he murmurs. “Thank you.”

“‘course,” Tom mumbles. “Sorry for calling you a twat.”

“‘s fine,” Alex dismisses. “Sorry I knocked over your stuff.” His thumb smooths over Tom’s cheek. 

“It’s okay,” Tom murmurs. Watches Alex lean in, welcoming the press of the other’s lips against his own. Thinks about getting to preen Alex’s wings again. Smiles. 

“What is it?” Alex asks, breaking the kiss. 

“Nothing,” Tom replies. “Just thinking about you.”

The blond laughs lightly. “Okay,” he says; his words punctured by a yawn. “I think I’m going to sleep now.”

Tom raises his hand, placing it over the one on his cheek. “Okay,” he says, and watches Alex’s eyes flicker shut. 

**Author's Note:**

> you can find me at [autisticharrow](https://autisticharrow.tumblr.com/) on tumblr


End file.
